Lotus
by Shiggity Shwa
Summary: Set AU from the SG-1 novel Roswell. Focuses on the lives of Vala and Cam after they were left behind.
1. Those Blue-Grays

A few notes for this story:  
* It's set during Roswell, and SG-1 novel, but a lot of people might not have read it.  
*Spoiler Alert*  
* Cam and Vala are left in 1908, they pretend to be married, find the Egyptian gate in 1922, travel to another planet ruled by Qetesh and Vala is taken over. Other things happen after but I don't want to spoil that novel and my story.  
If you have any questions please feel free to PM me.

This story is dedicated to Kat. Thanks for letting me write this in a week.

 **Disclaimer: own nothing**

Lotus

Chapter 1

Those Blue-Grays

"Memory believes before knowing remembers"

― William Faulkner, _As I Lay Dying_

The room smells God awful. Literally god awful. It always does afterwards, but sometimes are worse than others, and sometimes are worse yet, because sometimes he has to watch. Her chambers are decorated in gold of course, as she usually is—or it—he guesses, but it's been so long that it is a she to him—and she is more of an it, cast away in the background but he swears, swears he still senses some tiny glimmer of her—her lips would twitch—the corner—into a lopsided, half-grin tell him she is still there and he wants to scream for her.

The gold and bronze room is the most opulent he's ever seen, like a room in a museum or a set decorated from Ancient Rome. Twenty-foot ceilings painted with tableaus marvelling Michelangelo's chapel thing, except they're all of it—her—not her, she would never do this. Just it crawling on top of a mountain of naked bodies—corpses—did it matter?—riding random Jaffa, licking throats and faces and stomachs and—God, if he hadn't seen it in real life it would bother him more.

Curtains hang from the ceiling, thick as religious drapery—are religious drapery—but he's never been the type—unless he gets a macaroon—and a king king-size bed large enough to fit almost a whole squadron in and he knows because he's seen it because it is insatiable because it is the god of sex.

She is Vala

Speckles of gold pebble themselves throughout the marbled floor, and in the middle of the room sits a bath—a type of fountain always half-illuminated by something giving an ethereal blue glow. The bath is somehow a natural spring, but not actually the main bath—no—it had another room constructed for that. Not even an indoor pool but an indoor lake, a natural hot spring to bead the sweat and raise the libido.

Today is a bad one and it's only the second round out of ten to fifteen. It isn't that bad because he didn't witness it directly, but he heard the screams. Jaffa screams of ecstasy transformed in the predawn full moon into howls of anguish then gurgles of blood caught in throats—into hacked limbs and eviscerated torsos. But he didn't have to watch, so he'll give it a 6.5/10.

It's constructed a pile of bodies on the bed, he counts off hand—tries not to anymore because all he does is feed his rage and there is no one he can direct his rage to but it—and her—when she saved his ass—how many times did she save his ass?—twelve Jaffa, a mild party—orgy, it's a fucking orgy but he can't staple the negativity of that word and the sexual deviancy behind it to her face because he longs for her to come back in more than a lip twitch or eye twinkle. Left alone to his own devices, he replays memories and wishes they never passed through the Egyptian stargate. Should have braced the cold and died cuddling each other in Antarctica.

Perched atop the mountain of ripped apart Jaffa it sits—with her face—sweat shiny and blood smudged. The gold ornamental claws it wears circle around its lips wiping away any evidence of what her mouth has done—its mouth. Vala's mouth blew raspberries at him and grinned so brightly, even when his face crunched into one of short-lived patience he felt a smile itch at his lips. She was contagious and now it is contagious.

"Cameron." It greets, picking its bright, unsmiling teeth with a claw. Its legs are crossed, its hair is messy from fucking and fighting—not from untwining braids or pulling out full pigtails—and its completely naked. He's seen it naked so many times that by day three of being first prime he stopped blushing. Now he doesn't even turn away, doesn't even gawk—he gawked a couple of times at first because he's a man and despite the situation sometimes the blood just flows south—just paces around the pool of blood growing from the bed, dark red, and the metallic smell almost overpowers the stench of sweat and cum.

"You can't keep doing this." Bronze and gold statues of itself—in other hosts—line around the chamber and the blood has spurted far enough to give some statues freckles. The pool ripples and grows and begins to drip into the fountain, worms down the topaz and turquoise tiled side and stains the petal of a pink lotus—the pink lotuses are for her and when one died last week he killed the next Jaffa he saw.

"This conversation bores me." The voice is deep, masculine with no warmth or compassion, computerized for killing. But her accent remains untouched and give the voice a uniqueness among Goa'uld—a different level of class—which is another reason it took her body. Beautiful voice and privileged information.

It slides off the dead bodies landing on the bed with a thump and falling—purposefully—to its hands and knees.

"Then stop mass murdering your Jaffa."

"But they're so incompetent." She—it rolls onto its back, skin flushing with an after sex glow he gets to witness a dozen times a day. Ivory diffusing into a steamed pink and her—its stomach undulates in remaining torrents of arousal.

He moves along an embedded golden border of the room—he's allowed to cross over to the bed area but he never does—the bed being its sacred area doesn't concern him, the closer he gets, the realer it gets, and the gravity of the situation—the bruises and bit marks on her body that she didn't ask for—the cum wiped off in her hair that she doesn't want—gives him rage that again he has no channels to direct. "If you want to win a war against Ra, you're going to need numbers. More numbers than him. Taking the new soldiers into you bed every time a group finishes basic training and then slaughtering them doesn't get you any further—"

"They were sexually incapable, Mitchell." And he doesn't know why it reverts to that name sometimes or how it says it exactly in her tone—only considerably deeper—and why it only uses it to express emotions like weariness or irritation as she would.

He toes the line as it fans out her hair—gorgeous black hair with phantom ringlets strewn out on a pillow—only some strands clump together and he knows why, and it makes his stomach solid. "They looked pretty capable to me."

It laughs, mouth wide, lips pull, throat chortling like the true stereotype of a villain. "Hardly. Spent in under an hour. I'm the god of sex, how will that reflect upon me."

She is a goddess, and he realized it too late. Years of hiding in basements and pretending to be married. He gambled on bets he knew would win—baseball games and Olympic sports. Took what little cash they amassed and bought stock in oil and she blossomed as their money doubled, tripled, septupled. He bought her a mansion and when she grew bored, he bought her a bigger one. She was content despite being stuck a hundred years before their timeline, she wore the stupid clothes—the finest of the stupid clothes—and ate weird foods that she stuck her nose up at and wished they could have chicken strips. She laughed at puppet shows and grew close to a camel they saved in Egypt that she named Daryl. She danced with him in an ornate wooden ballroom before all their societal peers and made him feel like a king. She laid in his bed beside him—again naked and again blushing a lotus pink—and stroked her fingers through his arm hair and listed the things she missed. She never listed Jackson, but he knew he was on that list and the rage pricked at his skin until she dragged her fingers through his hair coaxing him gently like she did with Daryl, whispering sweet nothings into his ear as she told him how sweet she was on him—his vernacular, her raspy voice—and how she wanted no one and nothing but him even after they made it back to their timeline.

He was a king.

"I'll fetch the maidens to clean up this mess." Downcasts his eyes and pivots back onto the golden line. He was a king before it was a god.

Fixes itself on the edge of the bed, legs cross Fatal Attraction style and years ago—in a hotel room in Cairo—that move would've turned him on immediately and he would've tackled her college football style. Now he's seen those legs, those hips, that pelvis do unspeakable things to people, wanted unspeakable things done to it. "It's not a mess, it's art, Darling."

Straw. Daryl's back.

"You do not get to call me that." Pivots back again and his little Egyptian skirt—or whatever the hell it's called—spins Seven Year Itch style. If his grandma could only see him now, screaming at a God who bathes in blood, mass murders at its orgies while he Monroes in an ancient manskirt. "That is her word for me, you've stolen enough from me."

It doesn't speak which isn't usually a good sign. Just tightens crossed legs and leans forward, breasts bunching against knees and observes through narrow, but intrigued eyes.

"You've stolen enough."

"Oh, have I?" Lifts from the bed, face stoic with currents of anger waving through, body shimmering like rippling water or the accumulating blood pool as it approaches. "Cameron, you should never forget about what I can take from you. Darling."

"You don't—"

"I can take her from you, Darling. I grow tired of this body, it's gauntness and weakness in reoccurring sexual performances. Killing this body would be akin to losing an eyelash." Deep words spitting from its mouth and hitting the floor with the same smack of its feet. The hip sway enticingly dangerous. "I switch bodies and she becomes obsolete unless a form of entertainment and I would entertain myself. She was beat and starved for a week on end during my fall in your time, I can surmount that record and I will set you up to watch as I do."

What can he do but fall to his knees.

He begs, because he cares about a single thing in this timeline and it's her. She sacrificed her ticket out of 1908 to save him, healed him fully despite her own fatigue and when he reawakened she celebrated and held his head against her lap—he felt the relief whisper out of her.

"Forgive me, my God." Pleads with clasped hands and a downward face because his silent sobs are about to become all too heard. "I spoke out of turn."

It seems unappeased by his truthful and very near hysteric pleas, but it stops its advances. "And why did you?"

"A break in composure, my God." It loves the 'my God' stuff. Gets off on it, hears it ask for it while fucking, for praise and prostrations.

"You will answer me truthfully." With her voice—her accent—it sounds like an unsure question, but the Goa'uld don't waiver in their ruthlessness. He's lucky it was benevolent enough not to slaughter her on the spot to prove a point.

"Always, my God."

"You love her."

Unspoken words from her to him, sitting out on a hotel balcony in Cairo, watching the sunset over the pyramids, listening to the street vendors call out for the last time that day, holding her in his lap and closing his eyes and pretending that it wasn't so bad because she was there with him and he had her and that was enough when for years it seemed like nothing. Sighed it into her ear, and she tightened his arms around her hips.

"I feel the same way."

"I know."

"I can't say that"

"I know."

"Because of reasons."

"Me loving you means I understand that."

Pulling his face from the ground and without hesitation he stares into her eyes—voided blue-gray—and answers, "Without a doubt."

"Then come to her." It stretches out its arms, with fingerprints of blood mottling its skin. Her body is a crime scene. Her body is a prison cell. Her body is a mausoleum where his rage goes to die.

Jerks away from its outstretched hand sans one shiny red apple. The same bloody fingertips beckoning him. The same she flicked his ear with, and traced his lips, and racked through his hair. The ones he kissed as he watched her fall into a gentle sleep. "Never."

It's fingers fan in entrancingly, and a smirk develops on its lips. "It is the simple solution to both our problems."

"What are you talking about?"

"You wish to be sexually reunited with your concubine—"

"She wasn't my concubine. And I don't wish anything."

It arches an eyebrow and he's aware this is his second strike. The only reason it hasn't reacted greater is because it needs him to agree. To give in after he promised her. Looked into her blue-grays—struggling to hold back her tears for him—and promised her he would never give into its seductions. Promised her he would let himself or her die before. That there would be one thing it would never have after so easily conquering her body. Pressed his lips to hers and tasted the tears he didn't see. Clamped his hands in desperation onto the side of her face and breathed her in one final time before the Jaffa tore her away. He cried while he heard her scream from the other room, unable to watch her drain from—be imprisoned in—her own body and when it re-entered the room with a cheeky grin he thought maybe a true God was watching over them, maybe religion wasn't all nodding and repetition and macaroons.

Then in a deep, emotionless voice it greeted, "Hello Darling."

"I require copulation." It stands before him now and the stench is unhealthy. It hits the back of his throat and throws him in a gag that he pulls of as a cough. She used to smell like flowers. Take radiant baths with rose petals he would sometimes rain on her, it left that blush on her skin.

Bursts to his feet searching for those eyes—the too giddy ones when he kissed her in the public garden and pulled at the bottom of her petticoat and she deadpanned, "Cameron, no. We're in public." But nodded and pulled him further into the jasmine bushes while biting her lip.

"I'll have the boys send in the next round of newbies." He eyes the stack of dead bodies again. "Maybe you want the maidens in to clean up first."

"I require sanitization." It points to the fountain the water bubbling up warmly and trickling down from an elaborate double-decker spout in the middle.

"I'll send in the maidens." He reiterates and dares to take a step.

Gets in two before its voice booms throughout the chamber. "You will do it, Cameron."

He spins back again and knows this is the final countdown. The mythical third strike—he fell into her eyes and promised and that means more to him than whatever punishment it has in store. The final promise cannot be undone with beatings and sex acts. "No, the hell I won't"

"You dare to—"

"Yes, I do."

"Insubordination." It screams covering the feet between them with eerie expertise. The gold claws wrap around his neck and if the body was anyone else's but hers, he thinks it would lift him right off the ground.

"Do it." Its eyes widen—white conquering irises—as he eggs it on. If he dies he doesn't have to see her die—a sign of a true God. "Do it."

"Oh Cameron." Releases his neck and a golden claw drags from the bottom of his chin to his lips. The thumping of his heart is palpable in the moments he waits, cannot fathom anything worse than the torture of day-to-day life—of waiting for SG-1 to return and save them from this nightmare—but its not an original thought and it only ever gets worse. "She will not let me."

Eyebrows furrow and he's squinting at it because for once it has him stumped. Its tastes and requirements are very basic. Flesh and worship in any sense of the word. Unusual for it to mention Vala not once, but twice in the same day. "What?"

It rolls her eyes, they glimmer for a second and he knows it's her. It could be doing it as a ploy, to play him—he knows it's her. It clacks the claws together, and he would say it's embarrassed if he didn't know any better. "She cares for you and is currently using all her strength to keep me from harming you. I suppose it's sweet in an utterly idiotic way."

"She—wait how do you know this?" If he looks hard enough it always has an underlying cause, should be that it just wants to get fucked right now, but they've been here too many years, and he's gotten to know the bait and switch game. "I thought when you crawled in there you destroyed her right to her body."

"True," it nods in agreement, "if I was some common trash system lord."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I haven't irradiated her ability to influence me completely."

"Why not?"

"Because I keep her consciousness captive and alert." A gruesome grin curls on its lips and the eye shine he recognized before is snuffed out completely. It leans in, a claw pressing into the butt of his chin and whispers, "I make her watch everything and I relish in her screaming protests and mewling pleas."

But he's already read its book, knows its moves. He's danced with her before and knows she stumbles at the corners, knows she moves her hands to his ass when she thinks no one is looking. He knows she has some control over this thing. That's his wife. If she can be strong, he can sure as hell be strong. "Now, now, that doesn't sound like fourplay to me."

"She wants you, Cameron." It licks her lips, draws in some of the blood off them. "She is trying to convince me to let her share you for one last time."

"No, she's not you—"

"Would you like me to let her try and convince you?"

And he doesn't move because he can't. Wants to but it's been so long and if she pops back in for even a second, he'll abandon his backup plan to destroy it, and spend all his time searching for a way to bring her back. "No."

"She believes she can convince you."

"No."

"I'll allow her just a few—"

"No," shouts out the rage instead of smothering it in her. The brightness, the heat at his cheeks flares and the tears he can't control burn equally as hard.

"Cameron?"

For the first time since he's entered the room it's completely silent—serene—just the babbling of the fountain echoing across the empty space. Her eyes are desolate but they're hers. Her lips tremble and pull with puppet strings into a failing grin.

"H—Hey Princess." He doesn't know what to do. Swoop her up and run her away. Put a bullet in her brain. Nothing at all because maybe this is it fucking with him again. Tries to every once and a while just to keep days from blurring together.

"I'm—I'm trying," raspy voice gasping, because she's drowning. Her head twitches, shakes to the side, physically clearing thoughts. "I'm trying to think of something I can say to convince you it's truly me, but I don't own any of our memories anymore."

"You don't have to—"

Gulps in another mouthful of air and turns her head sideways towards him. In her jittering the golden claws topple to the floor. "Do you remember how you used to take me flying? Biplanes barely crawling off the ground. You bought that stupid hat."

"I rocked that hat."

"I hated that hat."

"I bought you that scarf."

Cries freely now, her hands—her blood painted fingers—twitching at her side. Chokes, "I loved that scarf."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

In the time it takes her to collapse to the floor he's rushing at her, gathering her up and depositing her in the fountain. Bubbles foam and swirl around her, boiling her skin to a different pink. He cups water letting it cleanse her, watching as grime and blood streak and disappear. Her head cranes towards hm, eyes wide with shock teetering on childlike glee. Her hand reaches out near him, skimming the surface of the water to stroke a lotus blossom. "I love these flowers."

"I know," mumbles it close to her ear, revels as she squirms at the proximity. Wets his fingers and rolls them on her earlobes watching the blood pull off in flakes. The feeling is natural. The feeling is euphoric. But the thing with being purely happy is it seldom ever lasts long. "How much time do you think we have?"

"Not long." The answer is blunt as she pulls his arms forward from behind her, sliding them over her shoulders, then her collarbone, then the swell of her breasts before dipping them into the water. "Come in quickly."

Hand cups her cheek, thumb running circles, painting with a different type of fingertip. "Va—"

Spins in the fountain and covers his mouth with her hand, a mixture of white and pink patterns glistening on her arm and blood free fingertips. "Don't say my name. It will bring her back."

"It. It's an it." Strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. She is the only inhabitant of that—her—body. She is all he sees and everything he does he does for a hope of retrieving her—a needle in a haystack—a Ra's pool in the middle of the desert—one wrong move.

Pulls her face towards him and kisses her—consumes her—tastes every little thing from the floral mossy scent of the fountain water to the saltiness of sweat and tears and the blunt taste of blood from Jaffa long dead. She pulls him, her hands gripping his knees buried beneath Egyptian cotton, sliding up his stomach over the chest he's forced to wax, slipping through the bronzing oil like car tires stuck in mud. Pulls again and he's in the fountain on top of her—already hard— her hands flip a single clasp and his manskirt floats and boils on top of the water.

He buries his face in her neck and cushions her head from smashing again the marble floor with his hand. Sucks on her skin and she tastes like her, feels like her and he rolls his tongue against hers because he needs more—needs more to last him.

Their first time was in a lavish hotel room with a view of the pyramids so breathtaking it looked like a painting. Her hair was down in ringlets—she'd recently been goaded into wearing hats from the other rich wives. She hated hats and the setting and having to roll her hair only to spend and hour pinning it up into an under curling bun. The hat, a dark green and purple pinstriped, was tossed—or thrown irately—onto the bed. Confining dress and petticoat followed, and he blushed to think of the state of her.

She leaned, stretching her back out on the railing of their terrace. She wore a pair of his gray slacks held up by one of his leather belts—she had poked a new hole to suit her size—and one of the tank tops he purchased as an extra small by 'accident'. It was sticking to her back with sweat.

"Someone is going to see you," was all he said as he flipped through letters and correspondence hoping for an update from Carnarvon.

"It is a waste to hide this body underneath all of that packaging." The humidity volumized her hair—made it full and shiny—yet she somehow kept it unfrizzy.

He chuckled and slapped down the remaining letters on the radio stand. "You and I finally agree on something, Princess."

"Do you call me Princess now because you've bought me everything 1922 can offer?"

Called her Princess because before—a long time ago in a different lifetime—lifetime one of four—she would complain and whine until it became too much of a hassle to deal with her and eventually she got her own way. Called her a Princess in that instant because he bought her castles and hoped to rescue her.

She cocked her head at him confused when he didn't answer—only grinned—so she shook her head and walked by him and back inside, but a bruise on her shoulder made him hold her in place. "What's that?"

"Oh nothing, I fell wearing that stupid outfit at the market today and—"

She doesn't lie anymore—doesn't have a reason to lie to him—so he saw through this one like the gossamer curtains in the veranda doors. "Who did this."

"No one did, Darling I—" Pulled her arm away from him—or attempted to—he refused to let it go. She tried to yank, but he held on tighter.

"Hate to break it to you, Vala, but you're a lousy liar now."

"Fine." Finally reclaimed her arm and rubbed at the spot he'd grasped for so long. "A man tried to attack me in an alleyway today." Noticed his change in expression and raised both her index fingers requesting a moment. "But—But I easily defeated him and left his tiny drunken self in a manure pile."

"Why are you using alleyways still. We're high class."

"Darling, I'll never be high class."

That made him chuckle and roll his eyes when she gave him a grin encouraging his mirth. He spun her back around, fingers tracing at the circumference of the bruise. "What did he hit you with?"

"A lead pipe or a wrench. It might have been a pearl handled revolver. I was in an alley. It was dark." Peered over her shoulder and when the mirth so quickly disappeared she slowed her words and bit her bottom lip.

"No more alleys."

"Cameron aren't you overreacting just a squish."

"No. More. Alleys."

"You're not my real husband you know." He paused on his way to the kitchen—to retrieve ice for her bruise—and wondered why it upset him so much. Why he cared about a bruise this week, or the gash she received in a bar fight the week before—promised she didn't start that one.

Pressed his cotton shirt to his back, planting her hand in an nonverbal apology.

"I just want you safe."

"We're never going to be safe here."

And he just swung around and kissed her—thinks she thought he was going to hit her—but caught her off guard as she stumbled backwards onto a very stiff—half wooden—couch with the ugliest pattern he's ever seen. Kissed her and after an initial surprise she kissed back. Ended up on top of him writhing as he traced a finger from her neck to her hips. Watched the pink blossom across her sunburnt skin and was truly content for the first time in fourteen years.

But the thing about being truly content is—

Yells his name as she finishes—the high walls and ceiling catching the sound and throwing it around like a stadium of her cheering for him—directs his head back against the side of her neck heaving with him as he cums. Her warmth, her smell, her all the same—still her.

She chuckles, fingers—clawless—drifting over the taut muscles in his back. He chuckles into her neck, sucks on her earlobe tasting floral water—Turkish delights. Leans back to kiss her for the last time—tell her to keep being strong so he can—but her eyes are already empty—not even a glimmer.

"Mmmm," it moans beneath him—deep voice, inhuman voice—wide haunting grin retuning to its face, hips gyrating against his still lifting and sinking in the water. Its tongue drags up his chin to his lips and he dashes back—causing waves, causing lotuses to rock. "That was earthshattering, Darling."

It always wins


	2. The Truce

Lotus

Chapter 2

The Truce

It continues its ways—the natural course of life—more than he knows it—guards shuffle Jaffa in, it slaughters them if they don't preform well, calls for him and offers Vala up as compensation for copulation. They try to talk about other things, he attempts to tell her memories and stories to reel her out of the shaken mess she becomes for the first five minutes after she regains control of her body—but five minutes turn to ten, then fifteen—because ripping her out of her own body and then allowing her some control is disorientating. Should've stayed in Cairo. It was almost a done deal.

"We could stay, you know." He closed his eyes, leaned his head to fall over the back of the couch. The sun was scorching that day—they easily sweated through dress shirts and civilities at the pyramid—particularly with Carnarvon, who he never stopped watching through narrowed eyes—and they had come home to a wilting garden and a Shakespeare play—a tragedy—on the radio. "We could make it work."

Felt the weight of her feet in his lap, her heel pressed into his thigh. When he chanced a peek, she was propped on the opposite arm of the couch, glasses perched on the end of her nose—glasses she didn't need but thought she looked in—she was right. Reading—rereading—a dogeared book on translating hieroglyphs. Without a raised eyebrow or any attention drawn away from the text she murmured, "I don't know if I'll ever be fully comfortable here."

Often forgot that they didn't share the same benefits of being stuck in Egypt. Four years ago, they celebrated because women were finally able to vote in England. Travelled back to visit one of their mansions and she dragged him to the polls, cast her vote and clapped with glee as she exited the booth. In Cairo it was always dangerous for her to be alone despite her being readily available to care for herself. "Sorry, sometimes I forget—"

"Oh it's not that, Darling." Removed the glasses and set them and her book on the table with a sigh. "I would be perfectly content to settle down here with you—" He grinned, and she matched his seductively, her toes traced the inseam of his pants "—have plenty of babies with you and retire as renowned archaeologists and adventurers."

"Yeah?" He inched his hand from her foot, up to her ankle, to her shin.

"Mmm, yes." She leaned forward—his hand slid passed her knee onto her soft thigh. Her lips pressed against his and for a moment he forgot about their conversation entirely. Her words were hot on his face, "there's only one problem."

"Yeah?" Free arm wrapped around her hips, guided her into his lap. Her fingers tickled at the side of his face.

"If we become famous archeologists, Daniel will undoubtedly be familiar with us." Her hips dipped on top of his, her lips pecked behind his ear.

"Yeah?" Dropped one of her suspenders—also stolen from him—also worn by her because she thought they looked good—they also did. Rubbed his chin against the side of her neck.

"Well then he will undoubtedly be sexually attracted to our adventuring archaeologist granddaughter—"

"Ugh." Turned his head away from her at the thought of Jackson with his beautiful—nonexistent—granddaughter.

She laughed, her touch became more playful, less arousing and she nuzzled her nose against the side of his face. "Do you really want to put her through that."

"We'll leave." Slapped her on the ass to get her to move off his lap. "We'll leave."

Fifteen minutes of story time seems to be the cap. Once it regained control of the body and held Vala's head under the water. Reminded them it could remove her in more ways than one. He wrenched her up, and she shook against him, gasped for air until he set her on the side of the fountain, allowing her to regain her breath. Her body shuddered, and he pulled his fingers through her hair. Her eyelashes clumped together as water ran over her face.

They talk less after that.

He speaks with it even less unless directly addressed.

Until one day it calls him into the bed chamber—a rare occurrence of bloodlessness.

"A word, Darling?"

It's sprawled out on the bed, wearing a sheer white dress that billows in the thermals from the fountain. The material curls and whips braiding in with its hair.

He holds his arms behind his back and draws his eyes to the empty far corner of the room where various crawling vines are plum with bloom, somehow pollenated without the aid of insects. "Yes, my God."

"Your interest in me and this body is waning. Why is this?"

A booty call. Simple minds. Simple answers. Vala gulping in his arms as water spurts from her mouth and he smooths out her hair whispering, "no more", and sighs partly in relief—partly in grief—when she nods against his shoulder.

"Forgive me, my God, I was otherwise occupied with your want of taking Lower Manhattan. Over 500 new Jaffa have pledged—"

"Those numbers are far too low." Cuts the seductive erotic dream shit. "You have not been engaging me because you do not wish to fornicate with me any longer."

He was never interested in fucking it.

It's sitting on the end of the bed, knees peaked and balanced on dainty tiptoes. "Have you then lost interest in her?"

"My want is to do what my God bids." Recycled words falling from his mouth without a care. The lines he had to memorize to be a mailbox in his second-grade school play.

"Very well then." It nods one and rises from the bed—all gossamer curtains in line with a box fan—the cover of a dollar store romance novel.

"Shall I send in the Jaffa?"

"No, I am taking my leave."

"Leave, my God?" Leave as in what? Leave the room—conversation over. Leave the planet—they haven't been separated in fourteen years from basement to pyramids—and three years since wrong gate to chest waxing—the glory of time travel molds them as ageless. Leave Vala's body—let him talk to her or flat and lifeless—heart palpitations.

It chuckles, head thrown back in throat undulations, "You really are so predictable, Cameron."

He doesn't say a word because it's stalemate. One wrong utterance and it would end her life. The vacillations between protection and sacrifice for the greater good—the time waiting for SG-1 to show up tumbling into the depths.

"I'm relinquishing control of her for a period of time."

"Relinq—why?" There's always a bait and switch. Always waiting for the fucking bait and switch.

Emotionless and with a showy throw of its hand it answers, "she is sick."

"What? Sick? Sick how?"

"You tell me, Cameron." The special effects cut out and the curtain dress falls completely flat. It pulls back the drapery tight against her stomach. Her stomach—her stomach.

"No." Shakes his head and marches backward—in the golden line, toe out of the golden line—borders broken. "No, no, nope."

"As she is with child I cannot be the active consciousness in her body, my needs will precede those of the fetus and it would result in an immediate termination." The bluntness of the sentence cuts deeper than any bladed weapon.

He sets his jaw, feels teeth shave against teeth while grinding them down. "Then do it."

It huffs and shakes its head at him, "And why should the decision be yours to make?"

"Because it's what Vala would want."

"This is Vala's wish, Darling," it laughs incredulously at him, and begins approaching him. The sleeves and tails of the dress dragging over the floor. "She knows she is with child. She wishes to keep it."

"And you picked now to start listening to her needs?" The bait and switch. What does it want with a baby. Why stoop to regressing to the submissive consciousness and allow her control. It wants to learn something, or it wants a child. It can't possibly want to break him more—he's already broken.

It places her hands on his arms, he tears away only to have it grab him again. "Fortunately, this is no longer my concern. Vala and I have agreed to a truce during the gestation." Then its lips are on his—acidic and burning—he tries to twist away but the golden claws dig into the side of his face. The forced kiss ends with a pop leaving it grinning. "We'll continue this in a few months."

Her body sways and stumbles back, bare feet slipping against the floor—he barely notices as he swallows against a dry throat—the words it spoke, the taste of it—the four or five pins he has to put in pressing projects because of her. Grabs an end of the robe yanking her forward to fall into him instead of against the ground.

"Darling, you must—"

"You agreed to have a baby?"

"No, you must—"

"You're giving this thing a baby."

"Darling—"

"You're giving this thing your baby."

Vala places her hands on his cheeks turning his face to hers, awkward with the golden claws. "It can still hear us, Cameron," her voice raspy and shaking, her irises darting while trying desperately to focus on his. "Whatever you say be aware it can hear us."

"Why didn't you let it stay?" His eyes droop from hers, ashamed of what he's insinuating—a modicum out of jealousy. A hundred Jaffa a day versus a few trysts with him doesn't exactly work out in his favor—and he rejoices because then he doesn't have to deal with his child being raised by that thing.

"What?" She slightly grins in misunderstanding, her eyes settling.

"If it stayed then—"

His neck cracks at the speed she releases his cheeks and bounces back. After he blinks a few times he finds her standing a few feet away, claws dropped to the ground, arms crossed over her stomach—and it hits him harder than any violating kiss. "Vala—"

"It is not the parent of this child." She spreads her hands over her stomach, accentuating the modest dip it was so happy to show him—to crush him—before. "It does not want to raise this child."

"You are not going to be a parent to this child, Vala. You're not even in control of your own body." He's yelling at her and he doesn't want to be because her expression is shattering, and he thinks he broke her. The words are harsh, his tone is harsh, the situation is harsh. "It obviously wants the baby or i wouldn't let you have it."

"It has no want or intentions for—"

"It will use the baby against me." Shoots his hands in the air, his voice overpowering her, hushing the words before they come out of her mouth. "It knows that we've agreed self-sacrifice is the answer at some point. It reads you, Vala, it knows you. It knows you would never allow it to kill the baby."

"We have time to plan against that to ensure—"

"Princess," he sighs calming her—calming himself because the next thing he says is a doozy. "Getting you and me out of here alive was a far stretch. Getting out of here with a baby is not going to happen."

"Cameron, this is my baby." She's trying to be strong—she is so strong—she straightens out the dress and purses her lips together. "I can't sacrifice it."

It knows that. It fucking knows that and it's probably the tip of the iceberg to what it has in mind for the kid—leverage, a new first prime, a snack, a new host—when she's aware he doesn't share her views on bringing a baby into this barely balanced relationship—and she's pregnant again—again by not her own means unless they won the lottery—and she'll carry the baby again and fade away once it's born and it will never know how much she did for it—she doesn't say another word.

She walks away from him, hair bouncing at her back, sleeves swaying in time with her steps, and he needs to fix this, aches to hold her, kiss her—God, he wishes he celebrate with her—but there's no way he can think to condone this.


	3. Sandcastles

Lotus

Chapter 3

Sandcastles

Most of its armies aren't aware of the switch—are sent off planet to help Ra in conquering his galaxy—only a few dozen of the highest-ranking Jaffa remain behind—blissfully unaware of the switch, or of the pregnancy for now. He knows because some of them—the frequent fliers—still sniff around outside of the chamber door, waiting for a chance to be called in.

She keeps to herself for the first few days. He goes to find her in the chamber where it usually is, but only the peaceful babbling of the fountain and his echoing footsteps greet him. The Jaffa tense again as he walks out and when he clears his throat they swiftly move down the opposite end of the hallway.

He hasn't seen her in three days. He hasn't even gone that long without seeing it, which makes him doubtful he'd ever be able kill her—or it. Throws himself into the distraction of work, training new Jaffa and gating them to Ra's world for probable immediate slaughter. Designating tasks to its three remaining handmaidens—polishing the statues, changing the sheets on the chamber bed, washing the floors. They know about the switch—about the pregnancy—and he tells them what she needs—the food, the rest, the medication—none of which are available.

On day four, one of the maidens approaches him, face down in respect—or because it didn't want any other women ogling its first prime. She doesn't speak and stares at her feet, fingers twiddling while she waits.

"Do you need something?" In four days he's only managed to search a quarter of the rooms, which isn't a good time frame for him. Their shared life is a nightmare that can only get worse—time alone is a nightmare that he can fix by finding her.

"S—She's in the maiden wing, Sir." Keeps his attentive stance, waits for her to elaborate—maybe Vala sent her, maybe the maidens are tired of seeing him ransacking every room for evidence of her. "Third room on the left."

"Thank you." Doesn't show his mirth—his gratefulness—in his answer. Just turns and leaves the maiden—one of three that he can't even tell apart anyway and doesn't know the names of—it brought them when it decided Earth was the next conquest.

Doesn't knock when he reaches the room, doesn't want to scare her away. They need to talk—desperately need to talk—and when he thinks of her going through this alone—another pregnancy alone—he feels sick to his stomach over wasted time.

When he enters her room—modest with a faded red-pattered carpet with light gray walls, a prototype television flashing, and a double bed with a leopard print blanket drawn overtop in lieu of a bed spread—the only touch of her taste to the room—she lies on the blanket, her head propped up by two pillows with her shirt—a plain gray t-shirt, none of its ceremonial, skin tight, and exposing outfits for private time—rolled up to her chin exposing a light blue bra and her stomach. One of her fingers pokes absently at the small protrusion.

Doesn't start at his random entrance into her room, doesn't stop her actions or draw her eyes from the television. "You know this crappy reception is making me miss that horrid radio we had in Cairo."

A long going argument between them. The room of their Cairo hotel filled with the voice of a radio personnel narrating a play as other actors popped in for lines. He was in the open plan kitchenette, pouring two snifters of brandy and adding ice from the small cooling box.

"When will the television be invented?" Sat crossed-legged on the floor, hair undone from pins and pulled into two familiar pigtails that have kept him calm throughout the last fourteen years.

Chuckled to himself, spent all day shuffling around in a desert with a particularly ornery camel who refused to let him near her, but the television always preoccupied her thoughts in their down time. Stepped around in the desert, waiting for her little "oh" as she used the remnants of Naquadah in her blood as a compass to narrow down where the Egyptian stargate was. At home she didn't want to talk about Carnarvon or how lecherous he was, or how it made sense that the gate would be buried lying down and need to be raised to work. Just questioned him when the television would be invented. "Three more years, Princess."

She groaned, used momentum to rock herself back—her hands on her knees—until she laid flat against the ground. "What awful thing are they reading today?"

"This is Shakespeare." Held the brandy in one hand and wiped up the counter with the other.

"He is the worst."

"He's actually the best." Settled the glasses on a wooden tray on the table, careful when stepping over her reclined body—dodged her playful hands as she picked at the end of his pant legs. "At least it's not a tragedy."

"This whole radio thing is a tragedy."

"Well, you're doing it wrong," carried a gentle but suggestive voice as he helped her sit back up and slid in behind her, her back pressing to his chest. Her warmth diffused through him and smelled like desert air and honey. He raised his hands up and brushed one of her pigtails off her shoulders and set his chin in the crook of her neck and felt the stretch of her muscles as she grinned. Slowly, he cupped his hands over her eyes, she chuckled and leaned further into him. Against her ear he whispered, "You have to listen to it with your eyes closed."

In 1926, their television is one of the first to be invented and the screen is small so the resolution is nonexistent—it grabbed the television as a method of keeping up-to-date on current events and global weaknesses but didn't realize how advanced it was—shuts the door behind him and approaches the bed in silence, watching the gentle caresses of her stomach, he reaches forward and grabs her free hand.

"What took you so long, Darling?" She turns away from the television and her eyes twinkle, reflecting the poor resolution.

"Hey, I got two-hundred rooms into the search before the maiden pointed me in the right direction." Her fingers are cool and the weight of her hand in his is comforting. "Thanks for sending your little carrier pigeon by the way."

"Well, I thought at this point you could use a bit of help." He raises her hand to crawl onto the bed beside her, but she stiffens. "Shoes."

"Right." Crawling into bed beside her during their Cairo stay, his hair full of sand and his body smudged with dirt, she would stop him—sit straight up in bed—by the end of their stay would tell him without even opening her eyes—to remove his shoes.

Kicks off his sandals and watches her bob with his additional weigh on the mattress. Shimmies up beside her, lying flush against her on his side. Kisses the skin gently on her neck, and her hands still on her stomach—the elephant in the room. So he gathers them up—placing a kiss on a knuckle—releases them blinking his eyes closed as they dance into his hair. He rolls her shirt down and wraps a hand around her—ignoring the hardness of her stomach underneath.

They don't spend more time apart after that. He's charged by Ra to keep its host safe during the gestation period, to ensure she never be left alone—and made it perfectly clear that if any harm befell Vala or the baby in anyway, he would be held completely responsible and forfeit his life—the same old, same old.

They go for walks in its lair—always steering clear of the chamber—drag their bare feet in the sand at the edge of the indoor lake, set up a picnic blanket and listen to the waves lapping against the shore—enjoy themselves even though they both know it's fake. She leans into him sideways and almost immediately falls asleep in the rays coming through the windowed roof. He lowers his steepled knees and her heavy head slides into his lap. She sleeps in peace and when he chances placing a hand on her stomach, it bounces with her sigh.

Whoever is growing in there is not going to have a good life.

When her eyes finally flutter open she stretches in his lap like a cat and grins—like nothing else matters—looks happy, and healthy, and content despite that footlong worm bunking in her brainstem. "What happened."

"You conked out."

"Yes." Pushes herself into a sitting position—her eyes are still heavy with sleep and she grins lazily at him. "That happens a lot now."

"Well you are pregnant."

The words hang in the air for over a minute—a soft lapping fake lake, and the shift of sand granules between her bare toes as she fidgets uncomfortably—they need to talk about it but four days apart—with her having free will of her own body—is four days they'll never get back.

She goes through phases of eating everything in sight and barely eating enough to sustain a houseplant. Sleeps for an entire day and then doesn't sleep for three—he's up with her the whole time, tries to leave so she can sleep in peace and she reels him back in with her eyes closed—fishes around in the dark—or day—until she grabs a fistful of his manskirt—or his shirt if they're staying in the room for the day.

He sends the maidens out on errands for them. She wants a burger and a shake, and they come back with twelve—either not enough or way too much—send them to get grab clothes in larger and larger sizes. She still uses an old pair of his pants—and a beaten-up belt—along with the plain gray shirt. The maidens pull through, bring her more extravagant dresses—in pale greens and peacock blues, full of sequins and strings—until he tells them to stop. She really pulls off the flapper look though.

They bunk in her room—so it doesn't find out the hidden secrets of his—the hidden plans for its demise that they slowly scheme together in unspoken words and quickly etched marks on a piece of paper. He keeps the scraps in a shoebox in a hole in the floor—new paraphernalia—he leaves her while he sorts out the idea—how to kill it without killing her. How to remove it without removing her. Sits at a table hidden away in a back room and rips at his hair with his hands—they're not going to come back.

Crumbles up more papers and tosses them across the room to the metal garbage can. They land among many others on the ground—he resists the urge to bash his head on the table. There's a light knock on the door and the top of a maiden's head as she bows to him filling the ajar doorway.

"My God requests your presence." Tiny voice spoken into the combined long sleeves of her hands meeting. She waits to be excused—so he does—and groans because he needs to keep working on escape plans.

Finds her in the lake room, reclining on the sand with sunglasses and pigtails—and a big baby belly. Her hand is thrown over the descending dip of it and her heels wiggle in the sand.

"Come build a sandcastle with me," she beckons him, trouser legs rolled to cuffs to just above her knees.

"Princess, you know I would love to—"

"Then come. Sit."

He squats beside her and despite her grin, he doesn't feel anymore at ease. "I have things that I need to attend to."

Sand covered fingers grip both sides of his chin and give him little shakes. "You could attend to not being so serious."

At the final shake he chuckles and fixes her sunglasses, so they sit straight on her face.

Their attempts at sandcastles are worse than their attempts at escapes. Walls are too thin and collapse, towers topple into crumbles of brown sugar. It reminds him of being in the desert with her—setting out a tent and cuddling beneath the thin white sheet as sandstorms ripped at them throughout the night. On nicer, clearer nights they would count the stars and relay the various names of constellations to each other.

"Remember all those pretty little houses you bought me, Cameron." She scoops up another handful of sand and mounds it to the left to create another tower.

"I remember them not being so little." He darts his eyes up from where he's trying to reinforce the left-wing wall and manages to catch the end of her coquettish grin.

"They were gorgeous and sprawling and I'm sure before we went through what we went through I would have swooned more over them." More sand and more sand until she has a pile of sand leaking into the interior walls.

He presses his hand against the side of the mound, molding the sand into place. "I bought those for you because I knew you weren't doing good."

"I was fine." Her eyes downcast and implicit in the lie.

"You never said anything, and you kept a good attitude like you always do, but Princess, I know when something's wrong."

She now shovels handfuls of sand openly into the castle. "Is it odd that with all though acres and bedrooms and all the modern amenities a turn of the century woman could have wanted, that I felt at home in the Cairo hotel room."

"Well." He goes with it and starts to pile more sand over their aborted castle, burying their failure. "We became a family in that hotel room."

"You and I?" She glances up from patting down on the sides to make a domed surface.

"You, me, and Daryl." He adds a nearby stick to the top and they both take in their horrible attempt at making something from nothing. He knows when something is wrong, so he waits.

They lie next to each other—the mound to her left—and stare up through the glass ceiling desperately searching for the constellations they were so happy for in Cairo. Her head sits heavy propped against his shoulder and he thinks she might be asleep.

"What are we going to do, Cameron," her voice is so desolate, so soft and breaking in a chilling comprehension.

"We're going to find a way," mumbles as he turns his face to her hair, watches the water lolling at the sand receding by their feet.

She turns into him, her nose pressing to his throat, her stomach punching him in the gut. "I should've listened to you.'

"No," shakes his chin against her forehead—she was smart not to. "No."

"Yes—"

"No."

Tries to pry away, but he won't let her. Knew the conversation was coming—the one where they switch sides because she's seen the logic he had a couple of months ago, and he's invested in the feeling she had then. "Cameron, once I've given birth, this child will have no one."

"It has me."

He's sitting in the off-channel room, still racking his mind over plans of how to keep her safe—the pressure and the rage mix within him and he can't be near her because he usually unleashes his rage on it. She's close now—poking new holes in his belt daily and wearing shirts she steals from him that he leaves laying around for her. Long gone are the days of a moderate bump hidden away under a flapper dress.

Yesterday they ate dinner in bed—she's tired all the time now and sleeps most of the day. Their conversations are short, and her playful nature snuffed—she turned away from him onto her side while he cleared away the crystal plates with baked ham and stuffed mushrooms—hardly touched—he didn't blame her—it looked awful—but not even milkshakes and a greasy burger peaked her appetite lately.

The muscles in the small of her back bundled and knotted under his moving thumb trying to return some mobility to her.

"It won't be long," mumbled into the pillow and arched her back into his hands. He kept diligent work pressing and stretching. "The baby's dropped, Adria was born about a day after that happened."

"I have to go tend to some work." Pulled her shirt back down and the covers up to her shoulder.

"Hmm," she mumbled and snatched his hand from the air behind her. "Stay."

"Vala, I have to work," his voice rivalled hers in fatigue—gravelly with a dry throat—he leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

"Yes, of course, Darling." Her hand rubbed his cheek as he placed a second quick kiss. "I don't deserve you, you know."

"You deserve more."


	4. Pity

Lotus

Chapter 4

Pity

She goes into labor that night while he's sitting at a tiny card table writing down important dates: 1908, 1922, 1926, 2008. How to get from 1926 to 2008. How to get back to 1922 from 1926. How SG-1 left them in 1908 and didn't bother to go back for them—at least yet—who is he kidding, they're not coming back—maybe the timeline screwed up too much—maybe risking everything to go back for two people wasn't worth it.

Someone knocks at the door—if she needs him she sends a single maiden who knows the location. He doesn't know her name and doesn't want to because before it reclaims Vala's body, he will have to kill the maiden who has done nothing but prove her loyalty.

"Just a minute." Jumps from his chair and pries one of the loose wooden boards from the floor—his cache of forbidden objects—moonshine from a pet store a few streets over, a list of important times and dates, a photo of him and Vala outside the pyramids, a tattered list of three baby names.

Finally opens the door to the ornate pattern on the veil around the maiden's auburn hair. "My God requires you."

"Yeah." Runs a hand over the grease on his face—his eyes are starting to burn with sleeplessness and heat of the returning summer—how long have they been here now. Almost five years—five years here fourteen years in England, Russia, Germany, Turkey, Egypt. They haven't aged a day because of Goa'uld bullshit—they've lived a thousand lifetimes.

Shuts and locks the door behind him, slipping the key into his back pocket, then follows the maiden down a tight hallway and out another heavy door—which he also locks. "Where is she?"

"My God is in the chamber room."

Redirects himself from marching in the opposite direction—they've become lax with their clothing—he no longer wears the ceremonial manskirt unless in conference with Ra. He usually wears trousers—his own, unpilfered ones—and a white tank that is no longer white. "Why is she in the chamber room."

"My God is giving birth."

"Oh," He squeaks out—and he never listens to her, because if he did they would've been in bed together with a primitive tv and spiced ham hocks.

Two Jaffa guard the end of the hallway—this is his area of the compound as it was nice enough to dole out to him. While jogging by the guards, he grabs a staff weapon, twists to the side, and fires in the same step—the maiden crumbles to the floor while the blast illuminates the dark hallway.

Hands the weapon back to the Jaffa—who hesitantly retakes it—and huffs, "get someone to clean that up."

Her screams echo down the hallway—it always said the room was soundproof, but hundreds of orgies have proven that theory wrong. She's in the fountain, sitting on a stone bench built into the tiled wall. One arm is thrown across her stomach, while the other fists against the marble tiles. The other two maidens perch—one at each shoulder—behind her, trying to calm with prodding fingers.

"What happened?" He slides to a stop across from her, natural hot spring bubbling up in cosmic blues.

"I went into labor." Throws back one of the maidens—who immediately comes crawling forth again.

"Yeah, I got that." Moves to sink into the fountain beside her and she releases the hold on her stomach to halt him with her hand. "What."

"Shoes."

"Thanks." Kicks them off across the room and his feet tingle as the water boils at his skin. "How long?"

"W—What do you mean?" Face flushes as lotus flowers rock with their movements.

"Your contractions, how long?" Wades through the chest deep water towards her, pushing aside lily pads and gathering foam.

"They were three minutes. I don't know—" Shouts with both hands on her stomach, launching the upper part of her body forward to relieve the pain. He pauses as she continues to scream, her face red and her one hand punching into the water, then her scream peters into huffs for air. "How long—how long was that?"

"About ninety seconds between, you're having this kid now." Sloshes forward and moves to take the position they practiced—only once, meant to practice more, but there wasn't any time—the maidens refuse to give up their hold on her. "You're excused."

"My God was quite clear that we were to—"

"Leave." Vala slams both of her hands down on the edge of the fountain and the maidens clamber to the feet, dropping resounding slaps as they go.

"Can you stand?"

She nods, biting her lip harshly as he scoots in behind her on the bench. "Do you remember anything about giving birth to Adria?" It's a blunt question, but time isn't exactly on their side here—time is never on their side—nothing is on their side.

"I remember it not hurting this much." At the end of her sentence she bursts into a prolonged scream that bounces like a boomerang off the high walls.

"Okay, okay." He settles her between his spread legs, using his chest to prop her up. "Just pretend we're back in Cairo."

"Back in Cairo?"

"Yeah, just sitting on the balcony watching the sunset, drinking brandy." His hands have her thighs and he yanks her up when she starts to falter further into the water.

"Listening to that horrid radio."

"Yeah," he laughs—scared as hell—slides a hand between her thighs and feels the crowning of a head.

"You bought those—" she strains a bit, bearing all her weight down into his hands "—that lovely—" bears down again and his fingertips burn into her thighs through the water, pliable skin moving over him. "—ugh, that jasmine bush."

"You loved the smell of it." He didn't want her to get depressed—treated as a second class citizen because she is a women, there wasn't much she could do until they became rich—even afterwards her past times were limited and while he was pulled away on expeditions searching for the gate, it was socially unacceptable for her to be knee deep in the desert with him—until it wasn't and he told her to fuck the rules grab some slacks and come with him. Left behind by her only friends—SG-1—and stuck with him—they really didn't talk before—ironic how twenty years will change something.

"It—it reminded me of an oil, no a—a—ah." Holds her legs steady and she smashes her hand into the marble again—harder—again—harder, until he's afraid there's blood. "A perfume, my mother wore—a—a perfume that smelled like that."

Her body is thrown into his, exhausted and shaking, recoiling and setting up for another round of contractions. Wants to tell her he'll buy her a jasmine plant when they get back—but they know they're not getting back. 2008 will never happen for them again. Sets his sights back on 1922, back when they were last happy. Wants to know more about her childhood—about her mother and the fun times before she was sold into slavery—they need a win—she deserves a win.

She bears down—her screams so loud they ring and then fall mute—he cautiously moves his hands between her legs, catching hold of the baby as it bursts forth into the water with a cloud of blood. "Got 'em."

He pulls the baby from the water, and it's blue. It's tiny and blue and not breathing. It has ten fingers and ten toes, and two blue eyes and it doesn't move. It doesn't scream, and everything went from being so fucking loud, to not having a sound at all.

"What is it?" she sighs, tilting her head up to look.

Grabs his pocket knife and cuts through the cord. Places the baby on a towel left by one of the maidens and drops his head to its chest.

"Cameron," he can still hear the mirth in her voice—the cautious happiness through misunderstanding.

His fingers can't find a pulse, can't find the beat of a heart—they never had any doctor's visits, there are no ultrasounds or baby books or prenatal vitamins—not here, not under these circumstances.

"Cameron?"

He tries mouth to mouth, tries CPR, tries warming the baby with his body heat but it all takes too long, the baby never regains color, never draws a breath, never had a heartbeat, never knew how much her mother loved her.

In the silence he turns back to Vala, watching him with dull eyes—he should've recognized—and formulates his words to explain to her what's happened. The baby wrapped up in a blue towel in his arms.

Expects her to break down, and to hold her and calm her and spend months easing her out of a spiralling depression. But it exhales harshly and with a flick of an eyebrow and states, "pity."


	5. Lida

Lotus

Chapter 5

Lida

It's amazing how quickly things return to normal. It regains control and berates him for tainting its sacred fountain with Tau'ri afterbirth. Demands he leave—with the child—and calls for the maidens to clean up.

And he just stands—the blood in the water staining his trousers—holding Vala's dead daughter. The limp body weighs nothing in his hands—the body does and is nothing. They never discussed names in earnest, just in passing because his grandmother always told him it was bad luck to count eggs before they hatched.

The rage is unparalleled because they deserved a win—this baby was supposed to be their win—even if Vala couldn't directly interact with it. "You did this."

"I did not." The maidens peel the shirt from it's upper body revealing a slightly deflated stomach. "I thought this is what you desired."

"Bring her back out."

"Perhaps your genes did not mix well with hers." One maiden pulls its hair up into a loose bun while another begins adding purificants to the water.

"Bring her—"

"Go and bury your Tau'ri child while I still allow you the chance, Mitchell." Its eyes flash gold and it's voice booms over the nothingness. The maidens halt their cleaning for a moment, but when it cranks its head towards them, they quickly resume their preening.

Slowly he retreats from it, wading backwards in the fountain, feeling falling drops from the spout rain over him. The baby has blue eyes—the baby is Tau'ri—twelve dozen Jaffa a day versus a few emotional trysts. He won the lottery and then lost the ticket

He keeps to the side room at night now, frantically sketching out mathematics on time variables and how to get back to Cairo. How to just keep holding her on the balcony and slipping a jasmine flower behind her ear and kissing the top of her head—he cries in the side room at night by himself, because it was his plan to go to Egypt to search for the gate. It was his plan.

Vala is gone, and he deals with squads of Jaffa entering its chamber and leaving while others wait in turn—the line queued up. Those four days when they didn't talk—he flails out, breaking drywall and pulling off some skin on his knuckles. What he wouldn't give for four minutes because she blames herself—knows she does—it's not her fault. It's not only her baby.

She never got to name their daughter and she didn't prefer any names for girls. His list—his three-name list—has her mother's name on it, but he doesn't think naming their deceased daughter after her deceased mother is very cathartic. So, after sitting in the sand by the lake and holding his daughter and stroking the smattering of dark hair on her head and recounting her fingers on her limp little hand he decides to name her Clara after his devout grandmother.

Clara is buried on the lake beach with a large mound of sand molded into a dome with a stick as a flag. He visits her regularly and tells her about her mother—he visits her with a flask of the finest moonshine not technically available—he tells her he's sorry he didn't do more. He really should have done more.

A month passes, then several, then a year, then more. He doesn't remember the last words he spoke to Vala—I love you, should have said, I love you—but still remembers her voice, her touch, her kiss. He's still first prime and by proving he protected its body during what it called its hibernation period, he received his very own forehead stamp with its symbol. It didn't hurt—nothing hurts anymore.

It calls on him and he obeys—it tries to seduce him, and he replies with simple answers and a curt voice that is always on the edge of cracking. It parades naked in front of him while drawing Jaffa into its chamber and he doesn't break—the broken cannot break.

He celebrates Clara's first birthday alone in the side room—sitting by candlelight and smashing back a bottle of bootleg—staring at the picture of Vala and himself in front of the pyramids. The wind was horrible that day—the first day he allowed her to follow him on an expedition—stupid of him to wait so long—cultural customs be damned—and she was so excited, so beautiful in slacks, a white dress shirt and a brown suede vest, hair pulled back in a thick ponytail and one of her hands clamping on her bucket hat as it threatened to fly away. Her lips pressed to his cheek. All the time he bought her things to keep her from getting depressed, he just had to let her in.

On her second birthday he places a small teddy bear on Clara's grave—he bought it an odd time when he left to retrieve the burgers and shakes—very seldom was he allowed to leave the compound—kept the triangle-headed toy a secret and planned it as her first gift. As he takes the last swig of moonshine, he hears it approach him.

"Go away," shouts without turning around—her powers of perception have bleed off into him.

Golden claws clasp around his throat before he has a second to react. Sharpened tips dig in deeply, drawing beads of blood from his neck as he struggles to free himself. Its eyes are empty. So are his. "You will address me with respect."

Releases him and he tries not to gasp for air—tries to look suave as he regains his balance—thinks to brush the heel of his hand over his eyes to clear away the tears, but it doesn't matter. "What do you want?"

"She is depressed," it states and for a moment it appears tired, burdened, emotional—some indication of sleepless nights forming around stone eyes. "She will not stop lamenting the loss of her child."

Falls to the ground, his bare feet before his daughter's grave, hands buried in the sand. "You never gave her a chance to."

"Get her to stop bemoaning. It is becoming exceedingly more difficult to copulate to completion with her hysteric frenzying in the back of my mind." Wants to remind it that it's her mind—it is just the hitchhiker she allowed in to save their lives.

When they finished manually dialling in the last chevron and leaned back from the _kawoosh,_ his eyes caught hers from around a familiar blue glow—a nonverbal conversation—making a final decision—if they had come this far, did they truly want to leave. As the days turned to years it became obvious no one was coming back for them. They could—should—have made a life, they were rich, had influence, had each other.

Instead they dropped through the gate and into hell. Fires burned everywhere, blood dripped from singed leaves. The ground turned to dust and the air cut up his lungs. She scrambled away from him to enter in the next gate address—got to chevron four before it picked her up from behind—wore the body of a woman with a similar physical appearance—tall, fit, black hair, blue eyes, pale skin—and it strangled her, held its claws around her neck until he jumped to his feet, demanding—then begging—it stop.

Dragged them away from the gate—she was barely breathing—and to a lair, like this compound—where it tortured them for days. Tortured him to the point where his heart stopped and when he woke she had his head cradled in her lap, petted his face through the bruises and blood. Spoke a dialect of Goa'uld and it stopped approaching, only raised an eyebrow and nodded. Didn't know how she stopped the pain until it was too late—until the Jaffa ripped her from his arms.

Knows it's bait and switch—he's tired of it using her as bait. The bartering system it always has in place with him. A little time with her for a reprehensible deed.

"Then give me more time with her." A tear burns from his eyes, striking his dampened cheek, falling to the ground and makes for perfect packing sand.

"You may have one day."

"Give me more."

"You may have one day." Reiterates and as he bursts up on drunken feet to argue because the four days when they didn't speak re-enter his mind and it's a waste of time—everything is a goddamn waste of time—it leaves.

She falls to the ground, on hands and knees until they buckle beneath her and she face plants into the sand. Sobbing vociferously, rolling onto her side and when the shock of falling silences her—her face remains contorted—her screaming muted as she cycles her legs through the sand in unvoiced agony.

"Vala." Attempts to haul her up—her face out of the sand at least—but she smacks down his hand from the air, rolling her face away and her leg inadvertently—thinks inadvertently—kicks out his unstable feet from underneath him. He hits his ass on the sand hard and then she kicks him in the thigh. "Vala." And the knee and the ribs and the hip. "Vala."

In Cairo night was always too hot—too hot for trousers and a dress shirt—too hot for a pinned hat, petticoat, and a dress suit. Too hot to sleep in anything but Egyptian cotton sheets and she didn't stop tossing and turning even in her deep sleep—ended up with a mouthful of her hair and half of her body on top of his by morning—sometimes a finger in his mouth or knee under his chin. She doesn't snore but talks singsong—as their mosquito net fluttered, her lilted tune lulled him to sleep.

Grabs her from behind, her bare heels digging into the ground, her body thrashing at him. Her hair whips a handful of sand into his face coating his nostrils and mouth. She bucks her head back smashing into his nose and he feels the weight of the blood as it pours and spills onto the sand—perfect packing sand.

He stops calling her name, stops trying to do anything but hold her—his arms cross over hers and bind them to her body, her feet kick and she attempts to stand with wobbly knees, but finally breaks and collapses—her landing less rough than his—and he waits as the flailing fades into shuddering.

"Hi Princess." Pets her hair back—crunchy with sand and slick with his nosebleed—her chest expands against his arm hooked around her, then deflates just as quickly. The waves lap at the shore and through the skylights above there are no stars. Her breathing slows to shaky inhalations and her head thwacks back against him again—he's sober enough to dodge it. "I missed you."

"What happened, Cameron?" Her voice is raggedy and stripped clean from screaming. In the weak moonlight a tear trails and hangs from her lip. "What did I do wrong?"

Pulls her back more, turns his anchoring arm into a bear hug, keeps his voice so soft that he might be able to see it wisp up from her skin. "You didn't do anything wrong. Sometimes things just happen."

"I should have known—"

"There is no way you could've know—"

"I should have—"

"Vala, we had no ultrasound, no prenatal vitamins, no doctors." Strokes her hair and sighs because moments like this—even thought it makes him want to cry and vomit and punch another wall—even thought its a topic he's had two years to come to terms with and still isn't over it—these are the moments he banks in his memories. The ones no amount of Jaffa fucking, or maiden killing, or moonlit orgies can erase. These are their memories and he keeps them safe for her. "Your body did what it did."

"Then why is our daughter dead?" The words float from her mouth and into the air barely above a whisper, yet he feels the impact of them with each syllable.

"Because—" He shrugs and his throat catches—so he hides his mouth against her shoulder—shuffles the macramé dress collar circling her neck—something it decided to throw on before it hunted him down. "Because we just have shit luck."

She gasps out a laugh, her hand snaking to the back of his head, fingers comforting through his hair. "I'm sorry I couldn't—"

"No—" Scoots back so in his absence, she falls into her lean.

"Cameron—"

"No." Points at her and she stops mid movement, halfway from sitting to standing, halfway to chasing after him. Her face is hurt and confused, and she holds her position unwavering waiting for him to direct her. "It is not your fault."

Head hangs, a veil of black, sodden hair blocking out her face. "It's no one else's"

He tips her chin up, her eyes blue-gray with a barely there twinkle. Her lips convulsing. "Our baby. Our fault."

She doesn't respond, only takes to her knees in the sand, arms folded over her thighs, and her patience—the submissiveness—tears him because this shouldn't be punishment—love shouldn't punish. Frees a hand from her lap, "Come here."

They trek across the sand back to the familiar mound that has never needed to be rebuilt because the fake lake doesn't come with its own fake climate system. He stops before the grave—where the teddy bear sits and his empty hooch bottle. "Clara, this is your mother, the one I told you all about."

"You named her Clara." Moon dyed tears streak her cheeks—roll down her face, highlighting her in the same ethereal blue.

They stand arm-to-arm, both attentive to their daughter. He feels a little of her body heat. "Yes."

"It's beautiful." A sob but with a smile—it reaches her blue-grays, and there he finds love and appreciation not apologies or shame.

Steals her smile—her love and appreciation—and adds in gratitude that she's here with him—even for a brief time. "So was she."

They spend the last of their twenty-four hours in bed—the old procured maiden's quarters with red carpet and gray walls—her leopard print blanket still in place. Neither of them is up for the sex—yet it somehow just happens—its influence of course. Different from their usual encounters—previous encounters, even before she was taken as a host. Slow in movement, deliberate in touch, relearning the creases of each other's bodies. The gentle pace and tasting of her tears and his blood and the granules of sand embedded between each bend of their fingers.

He groans against her forehead as he comes—not earthshattering or blinding— it doesn't kill him for a moment—her fingers trail down the back of his neck and tickle over his shoulders and back. Bends his head and captures her lips—simple kisses that bring him back to Cairo, the hotel room, the bar, the pyramids—them as a family perfect, simple, and happy.

More months pass, and he guards the memory of her between her brief reappearances. The pink and red swollen skin around her eyes, the dry skin where salty tears pulled away her cheeks, the gross crunch of her hair—they laughed at it as they skinny dipped in the lake—he tackled her in the water and fell backwards when she hooked her legs around his hips.

Its army is growing—more Jaffa enslaved than those killed to satiate its needs—rooms in the compound become filled, the deceased maiden is replaced and two more added to the roster—they all view him with side-eyes—cautious by him and suspicious of him.

It is impressed with his loyalty—though his loyalty is to her—and they come to a nonverbal agreement of one conjugal visit a day—sometimes they just talk, reminisce about their brief stay in a chateau in Germany during the coldest winter he's ever lived through, or about how she stormed away from him midsentence to punch a man who was beating Daryl. The man wanted her hung—and he knew how Jackson felt in that moment—but he offered him a year's wage in a fat roll of bills, and as the man counted the wad, he and Vala walked away with the camel.

"That camel loved you." He rubbed her feet, tickled between her toes.

"I loved that camel." She wrapped her arms around him from behind and rested her head against his back.

Today he picked up greasy burgers and thick shakes from her favorite place. It's 1928—a year before he would have had to remove his money from stocks—there's not much to do as she can't leave the compound, but today they're going to play poker.

"Mitchell."

Until it flashes its eyes at him—golden bustier almost popping and a large ornate necklace embedded with rubies adoring its throat. He knows already—they've had this conversation already—and it was only bound to happen again because its detest for condoms is only rivalled by that of the Catholic church.

She dreads it, has told him as much, lying on top of him and praying for another free pass and he comforted her, told her it would be fine, but probability can only work in their favor for so long. "Let me talk to her."

It sits on her spotted blanket and wrinkles the edge in—glances at a television that is barely working. "She is vehement in its destruction."

Shuts the door behind him—tabling the stack of cards and takeout. "I need to talk to her."

"She presumes I owe it to her, to not put her through that grief again."

"And who says she gets to make that decision?"

It arches an eyebrow at him—always a fan of wit and mind games—always a fan of sparring physically or verbally. "Who says you do?"

He stands within arm's reach and points towards it. "Because that is our baby."

"Is it though?"

An hour later he sits across from her watching her poke the burger. The shake sits on the table weeping condensation and neither of them has said a word. She pushes the burger to the side, and an onion falls off into the container.

"Vala, we have to talk."

"No, you don't want to talk." Her legs disappear under her as she adjusts on the chair. She's uncomfortable and nervous not because she's made up her mind—but because he can change it. She just needs to hear him say they can do this. "You want to convince me this is a blessing."

"It's not." Reaches across the table to hold her hand, but she recoils, sliding her hands into her lap. "Look I know what's changed since—I know why it's easier for you to—" and he can't think of the right words because her composure is delicate, her frame of mind even more so. He wants her to be happy with what she decides. "We could do this, you know. I wasn't there for you as much last—"

Her fist slams into the table and his empty shake cup rolls onto the ground. Her face is composed, her jaw set to keep tears from her eyes. "Cameron, I will not kill another one of my children."

"But that's it—that's what we have to decide." Pushes away from the table so quickly she flinches, but he falls to his knees before she can leave. Collects her hand and places a quick kiss on one before holding—coveting them. "We have to decide if we love this baby enough to let them be born or of we love this baby enough to kill them now."

He spends even more time tucked away in the side room, might have come up with a solution. If it attacks Ra and wins, then he might be able to start an uprising under it. Killing Ra is no easy task and whenever the system lord comes to visit, it becomes flustered. It has no weaknesses but a human body—but when it's otherwise occupied—he now has to formulate how to separate it and her when given the chance.

Rubs at his neck, checks his watch and shakes his head. Folds up the papers, into a notebook and pries away the loose board on the floor. His paraphernalia—minus a flask of moonshine—all stowed away.

Meets her at Clara's grave where she's talking to their daughter. Hoping she's happy and peaceful wherever her afterlife may be. It's been three years now and he tries not to think of what it would be like with a toddler running around his feet—what it would be like to have a toddler—adorned all in gold with jewels in her black hair—be whisked away by a maiden waving at him as he waved solemnly back.

"—and I don't want you to be jealous," she speaks as if Clara is there, sitting cross-legged and nodding to her every word. "It's natural to be jealous, but you shouldn't. When my father and Adria—evil step-mother, Adria, not your older sister—had my little brother, I raged like a violent storm. They had never seen a four-year-old set fire to a house before."

"I didn't know you had a brother." Kisses the crown of her head and tugs the blanket around her shoulders tighter—it's cold for a summer night and the stars dazzle in the distance while the moon hides behind a cloud.

"I only had him very briefly."

"You didn't—you know—with the fire?"

"Oh no, when Adria left my father she took my brother with her. Oddly enough my father didn't understand she was leaving him and not me, so he shipped me back to my mother."

"I'm sorry." Only gets rare snippets of her childhood in passing—afraid to ask her because he's afraid to stir up bad memories. So, he always tells her embarrassing snippets of his life growing up—getting rammed in the shoulder by a goat, having to climb a tree to escape a grumpy turkey, jumping out of the top of the barn to land on straw pile only to miss and break his leg—rebroke them when he crashed his plane.

"She was happy to have me." Her smile turns wistful while she stares at the grave. "My mother loved me dearly."

The room glows white as the moon breaks free—halos her hair, the blanket across her shoulders, and the bump strangling within the confines of a flapper dress. "Then why would your dad take you away from her."

"She had a mind disorder. She became unhinged very easily. Either too happy or too sad, you know?" Her eyes squint while she tries to translate from however her home world branded her mother.

"Yeah. I know." Remembers watching his mother from the stairs as she sat on the edge of her bed and wept. His brother was born healthy and happy and pink, but she cried for months on end. Would gently shut the door to the room and recluse herself to a corner, would leave his baby brother wailing in the crib.

"Sometimes she would lock herself in her bedroom and I would plead to get in. I would bang my tiny hands on that door until—" pauses as her voice cracks—she'll blame it on the hormones and he'll let her. When she turns back to him she's adamant. "But I never went unfed by her, I never felt unsafe."

"Sounds like your mom did the best she could." Reaches forward and rubs her stomach—what he affectionately calls her Buddha belly.

Rests her hand beside his and they're both rewarded with a kick—Clara never kicked. "Yes, well sometimes that all you can do."

"Cameron."

He's running around Cheyenne Mountain—he's looking for something, someone—no, he's in his jogging clothes, navy blue sweatshirt and sweat pants as he rounds the corners and corridors in—not the complex—a ship maybe? A ship he's never seen before. He can't run too fast or he'll hit—the trenches, never fought in the trenches but trying to stay out of a world war never really works so he flies and maneuvers and writes letters to her even though they're not really married even though she's all he has of their old—

"Cameron."

—chateau nestled in the German alps that he snatched up cheap because no one wanted to go into Germany after the war, spent one year stoking the fire in below freezing temperatures and living off game he shot before she threatened to leave—

"Cameron."

—off the coast of Italy—Malta— they took boating lessons stole the ship and sailed choppy water all the way and—just—she threw so much—when they finally made it to Tripoli they had to bed down in a hotel room for almost a week before she would eat anything—not a lot of chicken noodle soup—dark continent—passed the border into Egypt and stayed in a hotel room for almost five years—the best five years and he's never seen her throw up—

"Cameron."

Throw up that much—never seen—until now.

Springs up in bed with such speed he almost headbutts her, she reels back out of his way and in the weak light streaming in from the window he puts together his surroundings—no Cairo, not chateau—leopard print blanket—"Hey Princess."

Cool fingers wipe over his face—sluggishly over his eyelids, relieving the tension—trace over his forehead stamp. "You were having a bad dream."

"No—not a dream—just—memories." Cups her cheek in his hand and in the darkness he's gifted with her grin.

"Bad memories?"

One always sticks out. Got called away on business one day when they were on their way to the pyramids, where she ambled around feigning uselessness while homing in on the stargate. A porter stopped him at their hotel room door with an important correspondence concerning one of his investments—since the timeline was screwed up and events which occurred in the 2008 timeline had a tendency of sometimes not occurring in their current timeline he needed to look at it.

"Perfectly fine, Darling." She flashed a grin at the young porter who blushed and turned away. "I'll wait here until you return."

"No, no, you should go." Reading over the note taken by the front desk he wondered if the stocks had plummeted as much as the broker made it seem—stock brokers were the biggest drama queens of the universe and they didn't even know about the whole depression thing yet. "You really love it down there."

"I love the company more." She cuddled in, looping an arm through his.

In 2008 Vala might fake infatuation to see to their investments or to preen him for some large favor—but he knew her now, loved her now. It had only been a month since they slept together for the first time and it seemed like their relationship was at the place it should've been after spending fourteen years together.

"I think we're really close to making a discovery." He cupped her face and kissed her forehead. "Go I'll be there in an hour."

She did—reluctantly—leave and he was exactly an hour, clearing up a miscommunication with the broker and then calming him down—and unconsciously dreading 1929.

Outside Daryl was parked away from the entrance—which was unusual as the camel followed Vala around like a kitten—his own camel slowed its pace to a halt, he noticed her tucked into Daryl's side, stroking his throat and under his chin.

"Hey," he greeted, tossed her a wave through the scattering sand as the winds picked up. She flicked her head towards him and began to approach before he stopped—Daryl followed.

As she neared he noticed her vest was missing, her hair had been undone, and the first three buttons on her dress shirt popped. He felt sick. "What happened?"

He knew what happened.

The camel finally stopped and allowed him to hop off getting two full shoes of sand.

"Turns out your friend Carnarvon is quite the ladies' man." Her voice had a cadence of indignation to it, which is more than he could've hoped for.

"Are you okay?" Tried to fasten her buttons back together, but two were ripped clean off—then he noticed the bruising in around her neck and the redness on the side of her jaw. "Did he hit you?"

"Of course he did because I refused him." Shook his arms free of his jacket and when he went to drape it around her, she turned as if he held it to help her put it on. "I had a better left hook than he did though. Laid him out fl—Cameron?"

Clung to her and watched the desert wind stream her hair. Felt her body against his, felt her breathing like he did at night. "Are you okay?"

"Fine, Darling." Met her calm eyes and knew it was the truth. Touched the side of her face and watched her flinch. "Just a few bruises, nothing too bad."

"I shouldn't have left you."

"I can take care of myself you know. I'd been doing it long before—" Daryl dropped his head to her shoulder and snorted. She laughed and kissed his snout. "Both of you are so upset."

"I'll kill him."

"Oh calm down, Mitchell." His camel had apparently followed him too. She reached a hand out and patted its snout with a smile. "He's unconscious in the main chamber. Didn't even have enough brains to get me to a more secluded corridor."

"Don't say that."

"I'm fine, Darling." It was his turn to get a face pat, her hand sliding on the three-day unshaven scruff of his cheek. Daryl lowed and nudged him away from her.

Wanted to tell her thank you—for laying out Carnarvon—a man he'd seen get handsy with woman in the bar—who he usually distracted with desert talk. Tell her thank you for taking care of herself. He knew she could but couldn't shake the thought that she couldn't.

That night in bed—with Daryl safely tucked into his premium stall up the street—he was gentle around her bruises until she rolled her eyes and climbed atop of him and rode him so hard that the light on the bedside table toppled to the floor—he held her against him, her fingers tickling his chest and her foot situated on his hip—dangerously close to kicking him in the groin.

Rests back against the mound of pillows piled at the headboard—they're both rough sleepers—but she remains sitting. "All about you, Princess."

Doesn't answer him, only pensively smiles and traces a fingernail over his chest hair.

"What?"

"Well it's not that late," she begins and blinks coquettishly, "and I'm having a monstrous craving for those burgers and shakes—"

"Vala." Covers his eyes with the crook of his elbow but she softly pokes a finger at the skin on his arm.

"I thought that since I am incapable of leaving—"

"Alright." He agrees already throwing the covers off because as good as she was at stealing—she's better at laying in a guilt trip.

"and since I'm carrying your child—"

"Alright," answers louder and swings his legs over the side of the bed and fishing around for his boxers. He stands and yanks on his trousers and grabs his shirt from the back of a chair. Knows she's stroking her stomach and watching him stumble around for stuff in the dark. Pecks her lips and turns to run out the door. "I'll be right—"

"Wait."

"What."

"Shoes."

Spends less time in the room in her final month—or what they estimate to be her final month—pregnancy is complicated without all the modern-day tools they took for granted and now seem like props in the background of a sci-fi show—lies beside her in bed until she wants to get up, sits at the table until she's done eating. Lets her read to him from various books of poetry the maidens have brought in for her—all of which are depressing and void of hope.

"What are you doing?" questions as she stretches out her back from sitting in an occasional chair for too long.

"Standing," he answers, watching her elongate the muscle in her back and move a hand down her spine.

"Why?" Extends her neck to the left and to the right. Glances at her feet through her Buddha belly, tries to pull it back and looks like she might attempt to touch her toes.

"Because you did."

At night when she's asleep sometimes he speaks to their baby. Tells them things about his life, her life, Clara's life. Sometimes he can see the kick before it happens and places his hand on her stomach in time to feel it.

Most mornings he wakes up with his pillow snatched and between her knees, while most of her body is heavy on top of him. Sometimes he gets to feel the baby kick his own stomach before she pre-emptively kicks him in the groin.

"Vala, you know I love you." His arm wraps around her back supporting her as they rush down the hallway. Her posture is broken—almost bent in half—her shoes aren't eating up the marble nearly as quickly as they could. "This is the safest way."

"That fountain is a cesspool." Her feet begin to drag and suddenly he's bearing the weight of two and a half people.

"Hey." Pulls her back up as she lurches from another round of contractions. "This is an unfair workload."

"Do not talk to me about—" Kisses her before she can finish her complaint because he knows he has to keep her spirits up—needs to let her be jovial and not dwell on the last time they were in this situation—or the time before when she was alone.

Continues down the hallway as fast as she'll allow him. He points to two Jaffa guarding its chamber doors. "Open the door."

"Do not." She shouts louder than him. The Jaffa look at each other and then examine them for a moment.

"The birth needs to take place in the fountain," explains as her body tenses under his hold.

"I do—" and the contraction hits at the right moment to wipe her 'not' from the air. The Jaffa nod and open the chamber doors. "I swear, Cameron, if I had full body mobility I would—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know what you can do with those thighs, Princess."

Halting at the end of the fountain, he sets down his pocket knife. She holds onto his arm while he bends removing her slippers and yanks her underwear off from beneath the dress. He tugs at the hem of the dress and questions, "on or off."

"Does it bloody matter, Cameron?"

"Okay," ignores her outburst and holds his hand up so she can walk into the fountain, "Here we go."

"I'm not going in there."

"Fine." He rips off his shirt and lets it fall next to the knife. "Then I'll go in and help you in."

"Cameron—"

"Vala," his voice has lost its comedic edge. He can feel the anxiety he has over being in the same situation and expecting different results, can feel his own fears bubbling to the surface. "It's gentler on the baby. It's safer."

"No, your shoes."

She pushes, and he holds her the same way, supporting her body with his, leaning with her when she leans, shouting with her when she shouts until the back of her head rests under his chin and all he can smell is lotuses and honey.

Feels the head on the next contraction, feels a tiny face and a mop of hair. With her next push he tries to guide the shoulders out. She screams, digging her nails into his leg, he shouts because of the pain, but after one shoulder comes the second and the rest of their baby tumbles out.

Pink skin, blue eyes, screaming lungs after he pats them on the back and they spring to life, like he stuck batteries in. He cries. Vala cries. The baby cries.

"Girl." The only word he speaks as he kisses Vala and wraps their daughter in his shirt.

She holds the gurgling baby that he thinks has his eyes and her hair. The baby doesn't do more than grab her finger and she cries harder.

Wants to tell her how proud he is, even though he had to drag her ass into the fountain, how he wouldn't want this with anyone else. How he'll take care of their daughter and never let any harm befall her. How he'll work endlessly to get them all a way out.

He sits on the edge of the fountain, turquoise and topaz gouging into the back of his legs. He pulls the wet ends of Vala's hair from the water and spins them up for her. She kisses the crown of their daughter's head and whispers a name, her mother's name, barely over the babbling water. "Lida."

"Lida." He agrees stroking his fingers through her hair and when she looks up to him, her eyes are dull and not her own.


End file.
